


Drabbles, Ficlets and the Like

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Billy Collins - Freeform, Blind John, Christmas, Deaf Sherlock, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Shakespeare, Sweet Tea, Texas, The Nutcracker, Viola - Freeform, William Carlos Williams - Freeform, not violin this time, sappy fangirl love poem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:24:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm uploading some of my shorter or aimless stuff to here, simply because I want it stored somewhere other than my computer. Most are quick and lighthearted, but read the notes up front for any that might have triggers. I may expand some of these later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Toothpaste

**Author's Note:**

> This is a quick fill from kink meme about Sherlock freaking out when he drank orange juice after brushing his teeth. It also caused a bit of a fandom argument about wanting to see Sherlock do stupid things. I thought it was kinda funny, though implausible. Here it is...

“I still can’t believe in thirty-odd years you’ve never had this happen before, Sherlock,” said John, as he shoved his way past his flatmate into the bathroom. “I mean, hasn’t everyone experienced this?”

At first, Sherlock scarcely acknowledged the comment; he was entirely too busy taking samples from the ten plus tubes of toothpaste that had magically appeared overnight.

“And where did these all come from? Did you seriously go out of the flat just to buy these? Did you buy anything we actually _needed_?

“John, for the reaction to have taken place previously, I would have needed to have brushed my teeth and then immediately thereafter, eaten breakfast.”

“Ah, I see. Food is a necessary ingredient.”

“Not just food… juice. Firstly, coating one’s teeth in an acidic liquid immediately after cleansing them is rather counterproductive and I’m not an idiot. Secondly, I would have needed to have used your inferior toothpaste.”

“My toothpaste? Well, _firstly_ , use your own damn toothpaste.”

“Obviously, I had none remaining.”

“And _secondly_ , why is my toothpaste inferior, you posh git?”

“Yours has sodium laurel sulfate. It’s a foaming agent designed to fool you into thinking your teeth are actually being cleaned better. Higher-end and naturally-derived brands aren’t so foamy. It’s a rather unpleasant sensation, I might add. Yours also contains above average concentrations of saccharine.”

“So, the shout from the kitchen, at a rather ungodly hour?”

“A reaction to the assault on my taste buds.”

“And the current experiment?”

“There is far too much argument in official sources about what exactly causes the reaction. I wish to have a more definitive answer. After which, I will publish my results in a small monograph on my blog, cross reference it to a few of the more popular websites, and then delete the information from my mind palace. I can’t clutter my hard drive with unnecessary facts about toothpaste.


	2. Sweet Tea with Biscuits and Gravy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinkkmeme : Sherlock and John in your hometown.  
> Part One

Sherlock: "What is this monstrosity?"  
Waitress: "Why it's _tea_ Sug. You _said_ you wanted tea, right? And here's your biscuits!"  
John: "Well that's not... and what the _hell_ is the white stuff all over them?"  
Waitress: "Gravy."  
John: "What we have here is a failure to communicate."  
Sherlock and Waitress: [both looking at John]"What?!"


	3. The World's Smallest Skyscraper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of Sherlock and John In Your Hometown  
> Yes, this building exists.

John: She said it was right down the street... oh here it is.

Sherlock: Early 20th century, built during the oil boom, no doubt. What a strange building. Not practical.

John: She said it was the World's Smallest Skyscraper. It's not exactly scraping the sky now, is it?

Sherlock: Must be due to the beam construction technique.

John: She gave me a pamphlet. Right. Beams. And it was built by this McMahon bloke who promised them a 480 foot tall building but...

Sherlock: Inches!

John: Yeah. The contract was written in inches. 

Sherlock: One extra tick mark and no one noticed.

John: They never did get the lift to fit in. There's just a ladder to climb up to the top floor. Says they couldn't sue McMahon because the contract was valid. I bet he left town quick.

Sherlock:(smiling) A monument to idiocy! Now that is worth seeing! Shall we go inside?

John: (smiling) Yeah. Yeah, let's do that.


	4. Deaf Sherlock and Blind John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin. This is just a PWP from kink meme. No idea why I went for it.

John is reading the paper as usual, lost in thought, but never so lost as to not hear Sherlock approaching. Sometimes he is playful, and tries to sneak up on him, catch him off guard and use John's lack of vision to his advantage, but it never works. At least it hasn't yet. That doesn't mean he won't keep trying.

John reaches an arm out behind him as Sherlock leans against the back of his chair. Drops the paper to the floor as it makes a rustle Sherlock can not hear.

Touch is what they both share.

John's fingers are in Sherlock's hair. He feels the breath on his neck. Sherlock had tried to crouch down low this time, to plant a kiss to the back of his neck, but John hears his breathing increase, feels the breath as he moves in closer. Knows Sherlock's body expertly. Knows where to reach, and with what angle so that Sherlock is forced to swing his body to the front of the chair to force John to release him. His grunt of pain at the twisting of his sensitive follicles makes John smile. He does love to make Sherlock vocalise just the tiniest bit. This is the only arena where he does so.

John releases his grip and now Sherlock is straddling him, still on the chair. Sherlock drinks in every detail with his eyes. John's breathing has increased as well, in anticipation, his chest rising and falling. His mouth opens slightly, and Sherlock takes it as an invitation for a deep kiss. John's cock stirs, it would be imperceptible to anyone but Sherlock, who runs his fingers along his trousers in encouragement.

John's hands are on his back now, caressing the high-end cotton that is refined enough to feel like silk, as Sherlock grinds himself against him. John's mouth seeks out Sherlock's this time, but Sherlock pulls away at the last minute, leaving him without the contact. "Oh, you'll pay for that, Sherlock," he mutters, knowing full well he could read his lips if he truly wanted to, but it is unnecessary.

John grabs Sherlock's trousers firmly by the waistband with both hands and pulls him forward, then releases a hand to undo his belt and fly and remove his cock from his pants. He runs his hands along its length, warm, hard, and Sherlock leans in and claims his delayed kiss. John's other hand cups his arse and guides him further into his grip. Sherlock's intake of breath is almost a gasp, and John continues to work Sherlock's cock with his hands, fingers easing back the foreskin, pulling forward and retracting back, and Sherlock finally finds the presence of mind to undo John's trousers and pull down his pants. John's smaller hand guides Sherlock's larger one as he wraps around them both, moving in tandem. Sherlock closes his eyes, and John hears nothing but his own breath and heartbeat, as they both come, then lean forward into each other.


	5. “To a Stranger from Another Fandom, Perhaps in Some Distant Country, Reading at This Very Moment”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Write Sherlock entry, where you modify a famous work. This is my version of Billy Collins’s poem “To a Stranger Born in Some Distant Country Hundreds of Years from Now” (his first… then my version.)  
> And if you haven't read Billy Collins, or think poetry inaccessible, go pick up one of his books ASAP.

“To a Stranger Born in Some Distant Country Hundreds of Years from Now”

“I write poems for a stranger who will be born in some distant country hundreds of years from now.” -Mary Oliver

Nobody here likes a wet dog.

No one wants anything to do with a dog

that is wet from being out in the rain

or retrieving a stick from a lake.

Look how she wanders around the crowded pub tonight

going from one person to another

hoping for a pat on the head, a rub behind the ears,

something that could be given with one hand

without even wrinkling the conversation.

But everyone pushes her away,

some with a knee, others with the sole of a boot.

Even the children, who don’t realize she is wet

until they go to pet her,

push her away

then wipe their hands on their clothes.

And whenever she heads toward me,

I show her my palm, and she turns aside.

O stranger of the future!

O inconceivable being!

whatever the shape of your house,

however you scoot from place to place,

no matter how strange and colorless the clothes you may wear,

I bet nobody there likes a wet dog either,

I bet everybody in your pub,

even the children, pushes her away.

————————————————————————————————————————————————-

“To a Stranger from Another Fandom, Perhaps in Some Distant Country, Reading at This Very Moment”

Nobody here likes Anderson.

No one wants anything to do with a forensic investigator

who is incapable of drawing correct conclusions

or accurate observations.

Look how he wanders around the crime scene tonight

going from one detective to another

hoping for a pat on the back, a nod of the head,

something that could be given with one hand

without even wrinkling the conversation.

But everyone pushes him away,

some with a closing door, others with a turn of the head.

Even the minor characters, who don’t realize he lowers the IQ of the entire street

until they go to talk to him,

push him away

then shake their heads in disgust.

And if he would head towards me,

I would show him the back of my hand, and he would turn aside.

O stranger who does not watch Sherlock!

O inconceivable being!

Whatever the theme of your fandom,

however you regenerate from season to season,

no matter how medieval or flannel the clothes you may wear,

I bet nobody there likes Anderson either.

I bet everybody on your show,

even the minor characters, push him away.


	6. This Is Just To Say Stay The Hell Away From My Plums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My version of "This Is Just To Say", by William Carlos Williams  
> Poor John. Sherlock and Mary keep taking his stuff.  
> As always...the original, followed by my version.

This Is Just To Say  
By William Carlos Williams

 

I have eaten  
the plums  
that were in  
the icebox

and which  
you were probably  
saving  
for breakfast

Forgive me  
they were delicious  
so sweet  
and so cold

**************

This Is Just To Say Stay The Hell Away From My Plums!

 

i.

I have eaten  
the plums  
that were in  
the fridge  
next to  
the severed head

and which  
you were probably  
saving  
along with  
the leftover Chinese  
for lunch

Please  
forgive me  
they were delicious  
so sweet  
and so cold

If you  
refuse  


I will wait  
alone 

until you think  
you are  
about to die  
in a fiery  
train car explosion  
to ask  
again

 

ii. 

If you  
should discover  
your plums  
gone

My belly  
swollen  
from your fruit

I will wait  
alone

until you say  
the problem  
of my past  
plum theft  
is my business

 But it is  
your privilege  
to ensure  
I never  
do so  
again

 The cold   
the sweetness  
 so much  
like revenge


	7. Sonnet 29 (reinvented as a sappy fangirl love poem to Benedict Cumberbatch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This is embarrassing as hell. But hey, a love poem to Ben in Iambic pentameter is worth a post. Sonnet 29.  
> Kind of a love poem to all under-appreciated artists, actually. Some people suck. You don't.

Sonnet 29   
William Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sing hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

 

***********

 

When in disgrace, I look upon Ben’s eyes,

I’m not alone inside my outcast state,

I’ll trouble not the heavens with my cries,

For in times past, he too has shared this fate,

Yes, I am like to one now filled with hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

For those blind to his art, and to his scope,

“Horse-faced, arse-named,” did think this man as least;

So in these thoughts myself close to despising,

Haply I think on him, and then my state,

To mine self true, I need no compromising,

From life’s banquet, I’ll fill again my plate,

For thy sweet face remembered, such joy brings

A fool’s opinion matters not to kings.


	8. The Nutcracker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is me having Sherlock give me unsolicited orchestral advice...

"If you take the first note of each series of sixteenth notes and simply repeat it, the conductor might not even notice." 

The woman looked stunned-- as if the heavens had dropped a pale-eyed angel in the middle of Harrod's to impart this very special message-- but she still answered, regardless.

"I just can't play that fast anymore. It's been too long. She will be furious."

"The odds are significantly in your favor that she will not care. The point is to create a "wall of sound", not to pick out individual notes, and, no offense, you've been told often enough that violas are filler."

She frowned. This angel wasn't living up to her expectations.

"I don't mean that negatively," he added quickly. " I meant, they fill in the gaps with richness. The notes themselves are of less consequence than the tone. And by the time she gets to the tenth movement, you will play the slower melody magnificently...and she will be so overwhelmed by gratitude for your presence that any other sins will be forgiven."

She smiled, her eyes sparkling as confusion was supplanted by pride. "Thank you."

"It was nothing."

She looked closely at the man, and his companion close at his side, waiting for another piece of divinely-sourced advice, but there was nothing more-- save a quick and somewhat artificial grinch at lasted a tad too long. She turned somewhat awkwardly and walked away, though now with a definitely lighter step.  
***

"Fine. You proved your point. I should know better than to doubt you. It just seemed....rather over-specific. I mean the aging kids, the divorce, sure... I can see how you got those. Sort of." John looked at the woman some more as she faded back into the holiday crowds. "Maybe."

"When you lose an old love, you return to an even older one...in her case, music. The notion of children are supported by the items she was purchasing."

"Relatives!"

"She is purchasing just children's items, so it isn't a mixed list. And it's all being done at the same time. She is trying to make sure they are of equal perceived value. Balance of probability."

"And that particular instrument..."

"Does require a bit of specialized knowledge, I'll grant you that, but being able to discern the different parts of an orchestra is simple enough if you are at all familiar with them. That she's moving the fingers of her left hand in step with the viola section isn't difficult to spot, nor is it much of a leap to observe she was exceedingly nervous when the faster passages presented themselves. Her fingers stopped and she began fidgeting with the newly-forming callouses. She's been practicing more, but it hasn't helped much."

"An amateur player... in a community orchestra... returning to the instrument after a long absence?"

 

"She's good though. Why would someone join an orchestra again, add the stress of rehearsals to their daily life, if they didn't find it rewarding. The holidays are frantic enough as is. And it meant a lot to her once or she wouldn't have kept the instrument. She thinks she isn't good enough anymore. She still is, though, and she knows it on some level-- or else she wouldn't have kept with it-- but her confidence is shot. When the slower parts come, she will excel. Later in the symphony, the viola has the melody. Can't be too many violists around. Probably just her. Maybe one more. No, probably just her, or else she would have simply faded into the background and let her stand partner field the more difficult bits." He raised his eyebrows and dragged out the 't' and the 's' ever so slightly for dramatic effect.  
**  
"You know the piece rather well."

"Who doesn't know Nutcracker, John? Honestly! The conductor is overly ambitious to not have substituted an easier arrangement. I would think they are playing it in its entirety, and more likely than not as accompaniment for dancers-- but that was too much of a longshot to risk confirming. I do still have a reputation to uphold. But as for the piece, I've played it countless times in orchestra." Sherlock turned to face John directly, and what could almost be categorized as a slow anger crept into his features. "Why does everyone always assume I've never done any group activities? Never went to school? Never _played music with other people_? 

John felt his chest collapse inward as he felt a sort of lingering queasiness over having made such a rash judgment, and he apologised. Being counted, in any way, amongst those who thought Sherlock cold, calculating and incapable of working alongside others made him furious at himself. He once thought Sherlock simply didn't feel things in the same way other people did. It embarrassed him to think how very wrong he had been. He was far from outgoing, of course, but so was John, and no one ever assumed he didn't have a perfectly normal childhood. Which was kind of ironic because in many ways, he learned later in life, he hadn't. Still, there was always something other-worldly and magical about Sherlock. Seeing him as an ordinary man was still difficult. And ordinary wasn't the right word, either. But human-- yes. And, moreso this year than every before, with its upheavals, struggles...deaths. 

Perhaps sensing John's honest repentance, Sherlock added, "And, I do know Tchaikovsky particularly well. I preferred German composers initially. Balanced, methodical. I once believed, along with his many critics, that Tchaikovsky was overindulgent, far too emotional. But, the man put every emotion out there for all to feel right along with him. Sometimes... it is helpful. Russians... feel... in ways the English do not."

John paused on their walk toward the kitchen appliances to simply take that information in. He only knew what he had learned on a BBC documentary he had caught early last year. A conductor--John assumed he was famous-- had called Tchaikovsky "disposable", "sentimental" and -- the imagery stuck with John a full year later-- "as relevant to the modern world as the tsarist decadence of a Fabergé egg." The documentary also focused on Tchaikovsky's personal life, and a few crackpot theories that he didn't die of cholera, but rather was forced to kill himself by a tribunal who had feared public awareness of his sexual advances toward a...male... member of the aristocracy. John had not known Tchaikovsky was gay. It had bothered him, not knowing this. He shifted back to the conversation at hand.

"You know every part?" John pictured a vast listening room in his mindpalace. Maybe even more like a recording studio? 

"With it blaring overhead one would hardly need to have memorized it, but, yes. I know the viola part particularly well. Played it throughout school."

"I have difficulty picturing you playing anything but first violin."

"It wasn't my preference, but there often was no violist, and the instructor suspected, and later confirmed, that I was able to transpose as I played. Alto clef is a note higher, and octave lower."


End file.
